by Jon Athan
Mason seized the opportunity as his mother hesitated. He pulled the handgun out of his pocket. He held the gun by its barrel, then he struck her with the butt of the gun – a pistol-whip. The strike caused a gash to form on the left side of her forehead.
Disoriented by the clubbing, Isabel lurched away from the counter. She teetered through the archway, whimpering upon catching a glimpse of her murdered husband. Her son following closely behind, she clambered up the stairs. She reached the top and crawled down the hall, hoping to call the police from her bedroom – but her efforts were fruitless.
Mason grabbed her ankles and pulled her back. He stopped near his bedroom door. He turned her onto her back, then he straddled her stomach.
Mouth overflowing with saliva, Isabel cried, “Please, stop... Don't... Don't hurt me, baby. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Why are you doing this? I love you, sweetie.”
Mason was not perturbed by the pleas or apologies. He struck down at her with a barrage of jabs, putting all of his weight behind the ferocious punches. The back of Isabel's head hit the floorboards with each strike, too, causing more blood to spew from her dome.
The woman tried to squirm and stand, but the punches kept her down. She gave up and allowed the beating to continue without a struggle, practically welcoming the abuse with open arms.
A gash formed above her right eyebrow, thick and deep. The blood from the cut dripped over her right eye, turning her vision red. Another cut formed on the bridge of her nose. The cut on her nose leaked like an open faucet, streaming across her cheeks. The laceration on her lip worsened and she could taste blood in her mouth from her damaged gums.
Yet, the woman refused to fight back.
Out of breath, Mason slowed the beating. He planted his bloodied knuckles on the floor around his mother's head, then he stared at her – awed. Her face was bloody, bruised, and swollen. He couldn't recognize her through all of the blood. He licked his lips and shuddered, then he stared down at his crotch – he had an erection.
“Rape her,” the TV said from the bedroom. Wide-eyed, Mason glanced at his television through the doorway. The TV explained, “Matricide is one thing. That's enough to get you on the news. Raping your own mother before killing her... That's a whole different story. Mothers throughout the city will never look at their boys the same way again. Do it, Masey. Become a legend.”
“I–I don't...”
“Do it.”
“Are you sure about this?”
Disoriented, Isabel stuttered, “Wh–Who are you talking to, sweetheart? What... What's wrong with you?”
Mason nodded as he stared at his television, as if he were listening to a compelling speech. He said, “Fine. I'll do it. I'll... I'll rape her.”
Isabel coughed and moaned as her son stood up. Eyes glimmering with fear, she watched as he dropped his pants and underwear down to his ankles. Due to her red and blurred vision, she couldn't see her son's privates. She felt some relief knowing she couldn't see it coming. She couldn't help but laugh deliriously, struggling to cope with her son's savagery. Why me? What did I do to deserve this?–she thought.
As her son pushed her robe up and her panties down, Isabel cried, “No... No, please. Don't do this. It's wrong, Masey. It... It's so wrong. No, no, no.”
Words could not stop a psychopath. Sympathy did not exist in a killer's mind.
Mason pushed his mother's legs aside, then he thrust into her. The floorboards groaned as he rapidly bounced on her. He couldn't control himself, his rhythm was nonexistent. Feeling as if he were about to burst, he wrapped his bloodied hands around Isabel's neck. He dug his thumbs into her neck and strangled her as he raped her.
Isabel did not fight it. She didn't feel any pleasure, either. As a matter of fact, the woman felt numb. She didn't feel anything. Although she was still alive, her soul escaped her human figure and floated above the couple. She watched her own rape, shocked. She was willing to die, though – she wanted to die.
Mason tightened his grip on Isabel's neck and said, “I'm... I'm finished.”
Veins bulging on his neck and brow, Mason finished in his mother. At the same time, Isabel passed away.
Mason stared into Isabel's hollow eyes and said, “I love you, mom. Thank you for helping me. I won't let you down.”
He kissed her bloody forehead, then he stood up and lifted his pants to his waist.
***
Mason returned to the spacious garage. He walked past the SUVs and approached his father's workbench. He grabbed two gray high-density polyethylene bottles from under the table. He placed the bottles on the edge of the tabletop, then he grabbed three glass jars from a shelf above the workbench. He dumped the contents on the floor – the jars were used to store nails.
The teenager grabbed one of the gray bottles and read the label out loud: “Concentrated sulfuric acid.” He nodded, determined. As he carefully opened the bottle, the boy whispered, “Let's see what 98-percent sulfuric acid can do. Dad always told me not to mess around with this stuff. I hope he wasn't bluffing.”
He held his breath as he poured the acid into the first jar. He kept his eyes locked on the brown translucent liquid as it dripped out of the bottle. He could only imagine the damage he could cause with the acid. He filled the jar halfway, then he stopped. He carefully screwed the jar and set it aside – ready for action.
Mason repeated the process with the other jars, filling the glass containers with the remaining acid from the two bottles. Upon finishing, he tossed the bottles aside and carefully lifted the jars. He held the jars between his arms and chest, practically hugging the containers.
Taking slow steps, he exited the garage and returned to his bedroom. He walked past the kitchen without even glancing at his father's corpse. He tiptoed over his mother's dead body, aware of her presence but unperturbed by her death.
As Mason strolled towards his bed, the TV said, “Be careful with those, kiddo. You don't want to get any of that on your skin...”
“I know, I know. My dad was always telling me not to touch it or it would melt me. It would be cool if it worked, wouldn't it?”
“Cool? It would be unforgettable, champ. No one has ever used acid like that for something like this. You're going to be a legend.”
As he dumped the textbooks and notebooks out of his backpack, Mason smirked and said, “I know.” He placed the jars into his backpack, then he zipped the bag. He tossed the gun on the bed and said, “I just have to get dressed real quick, then I'll be ready for step two.”
The TV said, “Well, hurry it up a bit. I wanna see you on the news already. You wouldn't want a nosy neighbor to ruin your plans, either.”
Mason stripped down to his boxers, then he opened his closet. He slipped into a pair of black jeans – his favorites. Then, he tossed on a plain black t-shirt. He slipped into his plain sneakers, too. His style was normal – nothing out of the ordinary.
From the closet, however, he also grabbed a large black coat and a pair of matching gloves. He wore the leather coat with pride. The garment reached down to his thighs since it actually belonged to his father, but he loved the style. The gloves fit him perfectly, too.
As he spun in place, Mason asked, “How do I look?”
The TV said, “You're going to be on the cover of Rolling Stone like Tsarnaev, you handsome bastard.”
Mason grinned from ear-to-ear, pleased. He tossed the backpack over his shoulder, then he shoved the gun into his waistband. He shoved the extra magazine into his coat's inner pocket. He opened a drawer on the dresser under the television, then he retrieved a switchblade. With the press of a button, the blade protruded from the handle.
The young man leered at the knife, practically ogling the three-and-a-half inch blade. He pressed the button again to retract the blade, then he shoved the switchblade into his pocket. Finally, he grabbed his cell phone and his Bluetooth speaker from his desk – he planned on putting on a show for his audience.
Anxious, Mason sniffled and whispered, “
I'm ready.” He glanced at his television and said, “This is really it. This is... This is the final goodbye.”
The TV said, “It is. Don't be sad, though, kiddo. I'll always be with you, right there in your heart.”
“Thank you. Thank you for everything. I'm going to make you proud. I swear, I'm going to change the world.”
Teary-eyed, Mason smiled and nodded at his television – flattered, flustered, frightened. He couldn't conjure another word. Saying goodbye was always the hardest thing to do.
As the boy walked out of the room, marching towards stardom, the TV said, “Go get 'em, champ. The whole world will be watching. Make us proud!”
Chapter Seventeen
Step Two
“There's no turning back,” Mason whispered. “CNN, Fox News, MSNBC... everyone will be talking about what I did – everyone.”
The boy sat on his bike, parked in the senior parking lot. He used the crowded parking lot to hide, shielding himself from the public behind expensive trucks and luxury sedans. He rolled forward on his bike and stared at the enclosed school. Through the window, he could see students shuffling about in the classrooms.
Mason checked his phone: 8:56 AM. A bell would ring in three minutes. After first period, there was a fifteen-minute break that allowed the students to eat a snack and socialize. He needed to strike during the fifteen-minute window so more students would be wandering the halls. If the students locked themselves in the classrooms, his plans would be complicated.
The bell rang, snapping the killer out of his contemplation.
The boy nodded and said, “It's time. I have to do it now. I have... I have to go.”
Mason pedaled towards the front of the school. He hopped off of his bike and lurched towards the front gate. As expected, the few security guards on campus were wandering the halls during the busy intermission.
Mason carefully shoved his backpack through the bottom of the gate. He didn't want the jars of acid to explode. He gripped the iron rails and climbed up, then he hopped over onto the other side, landing quietly like an expert thief.
He slung his backpack over his shoulder and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He could have already entered the school and initiated step two, but he was a showman – he needed to entertain. He flicked his finger across his phone, then he played a song – Carmina Burana: O Fortuna. The music played through his speakers and seeped into the school.
In a cracking tone, anxious and uncertain, Mason said, “Showtime...”
In the hallway, students furrowed their brows and giggled upon hearing the music. The teenagers glanced up at the speakers on the walls, but the music did not emerge from the PA system. As the music grew louder, they glanced over at the double-door entrance at the end of the hall – it was coming from outside.
Standing near the entrance, a security guard rubbed the nape of his neck as he stared at the door. He gripped the radio on his chest as he approached the filmy glass on the right side of the doors. He peered through the glass, baffled. He could see a dark, blurry figure approaching.
The glass shattered and three thunderous gunshots echoed through the area. The security guard staggered back as the first two rounds struck his stomach. He fell to the floor as the final bullet hit his chest. He groaned and squirmed on the floor, unable to reach his taser.
Mason stepped through his makeshift entrance, lunging over the frame. The glass crackled and snapped under his sneakers as he walked into the hall. He leaned down and shot the security guard between his eyes. He didn't hesitate because he couldn't hesitate. One false move could halt all of his momentum and he knew that very well.
To his right, the door leading to the administration area was slammed shut – the students and teachers hid, abandoning the others – survival of the fittest. Most of the students ran away from the shooter, slipping into the open rooms and heading to the emergency exits. However, some of the students struggled to run.
Like deer in the headlights, they stood frozen in fear. A shooter on campus – it was just too difficult to accept. It wasn't supposed to happen to them.
In a confident tone, Mason smirked and said, “Showtime.”
He walked forward and fired at the students in the hall. As if their survival instincts finally kicked in, the students scattered at the sound of gunfire like cockroaches shocked by a blinding light. He fired eight rounds.
One student yelped and fell as a bullet struck her thigh. Another student cried and tumbled as a bullet hit the small of his back. A senior in a black leather jacket was hit in the arm, but he was able to slip into a classroom.
“Shooter! Get inside! Get inside!” a male teacher yelled from the neighboring corridor. “Come here! Get in here! Hurry up!”
The teacher's voice dwindled as he led the students away from the gunfire. A shrill alarm rang over the PA system, blaring at regular intervals – ring, ten seconds of silence, ring, and so on. With the alarm, the sounds of doors closing and locking echoed through the building. Most of the students and teachers worked efficiently – they were prepared.
As he jogged down the corridor, Mason muttered, “Shit, I have to work faster...”
He approached the brunette girl who was shot in the leg. The teenage girl, a sophomore, squirmed on her back, trying to wiggle away from the shooter.
Eyes brimming with tears, she held her hand up and cried, “Don't hurt me. I don't want to die. Please, don't hurt me.”
Mason said, “It's okay. Everything's going to be okay.”
“You–You're Mason, aren't you? We have gym at the same time, right? Please, don't do this.”
“I said: everything's going to be okay. Now, close your eyes.”
“Close my eyes?”
“Close your eyes.”
The girl's bottom lip quivered as she gazed into Mason's eyes. She feared she wasn't going to survive the encounter.
Mason sneered in disgust and said, “Fuck it. You're just wasting my time.”
“Wait. Please, don't–”
Before she could finish, Mason shot at her head. The bullet went up her nose and penetrated her cranium. The teenager shook his head, bothered by the girl's reluctance. He wanted to make her suffer by forcing her to close her eyes, but he didn't have all day to convince her. He proudly marched down the hall and approached the other shot teenager.
Despite the bullet lodged in his back, the young man frantically crawled down the corridor. He almost reached the intersection, too, but he wasn't fast enough to evade the shooter.
Mason kicked him, causing the youngster to crash into the neighboring lockers. Skipping the theatrics, he fired one round into the boy's chest without uttering another word. He would have fired another, but he exhausted all of the ammunition in his magazine.
As he reloaded the weapon over the boy's dead body, Mason muttered, “You fucking pussy... Trying to get away from me... What the hell is wrong with you? Huh? If you really wanted to live, all of you would have rushed me and taken this gun from me. Instead, you all ran like a bunch of pussies. Now, we're just playing a game of hide-and-seek. You all missed your chance. You all fucked up...”
Mason pulled the slide back until it stopped, then he allowed it to move forward. The gun was loaded with another bullet – ready to point-and-kill – a toddler could do it.
He approached the last room in the corridor. He turned the handle, but to no avail – the teacher already locked the door. He stepped back, then he kicked the door with all of his might. To his dismay, the door did not budge. He took three steps back and aimed the gun at the door handle. He thought about shooting at the door, but he couldn't pull the trigger. He needed the ammunition and he wanted to avoid a fatal ricochet. He sighed and kicked the door again.
Mason smirked upon hearing the weeping and bickering in the classroom. He shouted, “Today's your lucky day! I'm going to leave you alone. I'm going to let you live. But, just know this: if I can't kill you, I'm going to kill all of your friends. And, you will have to live w
ith that. I'll see you around!”
He deviously chuckled, amused by his psychological attack. He shoved the gun into his waistband. He still planned on killing, but he knew faculty and security would be searching for him. He wanted to catch them by surprise, he wanted to play with their minds. He ran down the hall and headed to his next destination.
***
9:06 AM – Mason was not pleased with his timing. In five minutes, he only killed three people on the campus and he was aiming for a double-digit body count. He sprinted down the hall and headed to the west exit. The west exit led to the outdoor area for the physical education classes. He planned on picking off the straggling students on the track and in the locker rooms.
“Stop! Don't move!” a booming austere voice said from behind the teenager.
Mason slid to a stop with his hands raised over his head. He glanced over his shoulder and stared at his pursuer. He cracked a smile upon spotting the security guard – campus police officer Scott Webb.
Middle-aged, Scott had grizzled hair with a receding hairline. He wore a regular police uniform – a button-up shirt, matching trousers, a utility belt, and insulated boots. In bold letters, the back of his black jacket read: POLICE. He was an off-duty police officer who regularly worked at the school during the day. He was well known in the school, too – a calm, lenient officer.
Mason smiled because he knew how to manipulate him.
As he aimed his handgun at the shooter, Scott directed, “Slowly throw your gun on the floor, then get down on your stomach. Don't do anything stupid, Mason.”
Mason responded, “I don't have a gun.”
“We know it's you. Please, put the gun down. Don't make me do this, kid.”
Mason chuckled and shrugged. He said, “Okay. You got me. I have a gun. I shot those idiots down there. But, I'm out of ammo. I can't shoot anymore, I swear. You're not going to shoot an unarmed kid, are you?”
“Get down on your stomach, Mason. I will shoot.”
